


How Do You Greet a Prince?

by Aithilin



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: 5+1 series, Childhood, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-13 00:52:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12972132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aithilin/pseuds/Aithilin
Summary: A 5+1 series of Ignis and Noct through the years.





	How Do You Greet a Prince?

How Do You Greet a Prince? 

1 - When he was young, Ignis was used to watching the adults introduce each other. He was used to standing by as an observer of the protocol as the grown-ups, men and women and lords and ladies, shook hands and traded smiles. When he was brought to Insomnia, away from the thick canopy of leaves and the fields of blue blossoms, he remembered the way those smiles and firm shakes of hands started to be turned towards him. But the eyes were so cold. 

When Ignis arrived in Insomnia, he thought he understood the proper protocols. There were those below the station of the King, who could be greeted with a firm handshake and welcoming smile if he was part of the hosting party. There were those who would host him— via his uncle— who would expect a polite nod in greeting as they shook hands. He understood stations and sections and departments— the men and women in their uniforms ignored him as he trailed after his uncle most days, and Ignis understood them to be Crownsguard, Kingsglaive, the serving staff paid better for their discretion than their services. 

He understood that he would bow to the King— a low and formal gesture, observed from the galleries of the throne room with his uncle as supplicants and staff and advisers all warred for the King’s attention. He understood that it was a formality, that it was expected. That the soft smile he peeked as he caught the King’s eyes on him, the laughter in those eyes as the Royal Shield muttered something quietly in a moment of peace, were all things he wasn’t meant to acknowledge. At least not from a position like his own— an outsider and newcomer, still learning the protocol of the Lucian Court. 

So he bowed when he met the King. He stood straight and proper and straightened the vest his uncle had bought for him. He had shined his shoes and cleaned his glasses, careful of every offencive speck of childhood that might cling to his carefully cultivated image. When he met the King, Ignis was proud that he knew exactly what to do, what to say. 

But no one had ever told him how to greet the Prince. 

He wondered if he would bow. Like he did for the King, but he had never seen anyone else greet the Prince. Crown Prince Noctis was an elusive name, left out of courtly encounters and the Citadel’s bright hallways of the staff offices and conference rooms. None of his uncle’s lectures covered how to greet the Prince, and there was no protocol listed in the books he had borrowed on royal etiquette from his uncle’s study. 

He had thought he might bow, but perhaps not as low as with the King. He could stand at attention like the Guards and Glaives, but he suspected that came from their station. He thought his uncle would guide him, that the Prince might act first. 

Ignis’ thoughts and plans flew from his mind when he realised how close he was to the throne. He had never seen the dark marble steps so close— their intricate details and imperfections shining in the sun through the tall arched windows. The gold of the accents, glittering the daylight, was mesmerising. And Ignis was in awe of the grandeur. 

As was the Prince, apparently. 

Ignis noticed the boy before he noticed the King. He bowed as expected, and tried not to let the terrified beating of his heart be heard as his Uncle introduced him, as he was pushed forward for inspection. The Prince was across from him, staring up at the adornments in the ceiling, eyes fixed on the details Ignis was too scared to examine as the King spoke. As the King leaned down to look him in the eye, and Ignis could see that kindness he had only glimpsed before. 

It was the shy little boy that was brought forward that made Ignis forget what he had planned to do, to say. He had thought to address the Prince directly, to be confident and proud, like his uncle. But the boy looked scared in the face of the formality, in the stiffness. 

Ignis offered his hand. 

And he could only smile when those big eyes widened and the Crown Prince, eighteen months his junior, smiled at him as if he was the most interesting person in the cavernous room.

~*~*~ 

2 - There were certain protocols in place, manners and traditions that were drilled into Ignis as he became used to the routine. He was not to lose the little security pass when separate from his uncle. He was not to stray from the royal apartments or lead the Prince to stray from the routines of nursery, lessons, and meals. He was to bow to the King and greet all of the adults properly. He was used to following his uncle into the towering Citadel and taking the long elevator rides to the royal apartments, to the nursery where the Prince was usually left to play under the careful eye of a guardian, as guards came and went and barely seemed to notice them. 

He learnt, after some digging through the guides on etiquette, that he was meant to bow to the Prince as well. It was proper— according to a Lucian chamberlain naming herself ‘Miss Manners’ from decades before he was born, and who wrote a book titled “The Everyday Etiquette of Proper Gentlemen”— to bow to the Prince in the same manner as the King. But no one seemed to do that. 

In the few days they had been taken to the throne room for some important event or another— with it’s glittering accents in gold, rising like dragon wings and breaking waves, twists of metal clawing its way from the dark stone around it, which never failed to mesmerise the young Prince— no one seemed to pay the Prince any attention. Their caretaker had them sit in the gallery, near the steps that could take Noctis down to his father if needed, and they were given treats and juices to sit still and watch the King. There would be times in that cavernous room, Ignis found himself holding Noctis’ arm to keep him from going to his father’s side as some dignitary or ambassador spoke from the bottom of the steps. 

Some days, after the meetings to watch and the courtly events were done, they were brought back to the bright rooms with the Prince’s toys and games and left to their own devices. And other days, when the King had dismissed everyone but his closest friends and them, Noctis would run to his father— ignoring all protocol and manners— and the cavernous room would echo with excited stories and the Prince’s laughter. Ignis met Clarus then, and Cor, and he learnt to play with Noctis in the presence of the King. He learnt— with so many important eyes on him— to help Noctis finish his stories of their adventures and games with barely a blush under the attention. 

He learnt about scraped knees on marble steps, and was lifted with the Prince to examine the details of Kings and Queens past into the stone and gold and twisting light through the great arching windows. He learnt, as Noctis told his father— little voice echoing around them— of the latest story Ignis had read to him, that he could trace the Lucian insignia etched into the stonework itself. He heard Clarus laugh and Cor make jokes, he saw the King smile and felt the flutter of magic as Noctis leapt from the steps to Clarus’ careful and waiting arms— just to see how high up his father really sat. 

And as weeks and months stretched on, Ignis found that the protocols may not be meant for him. That Noctis’ excited greetings, sleepy greetings, quiet or as loud as the days required, were varied and familiar. There was barely an formal acknowledgements between them. Not as the Prince exclaimed “Iggy!” and grabbed his hand to lead him off on the day’s adventure. 

~*~*~

3- Noctis was never quiet. Not really. Not like this. 

After years of knowing his Prince, Ignis never thought that he would see the other boy so wounded. He had withdrawn after his return from Tenebrae, bandages and doctors still a constant presence. The sting of antiseptics and salves piled high on the little nightstand replacing the perfume of the flowers that used to be set by the door each morning. The bright light of the day outside— that used to encourage Noctis to press himself close to the glass to see the streets so far below— only drove him deeper beneath his blankets. 

And Ignis was at a loss. 

The first few days, he sat with Noctis. He held his friend when the doctor and nurses left. He listened to the quiet little sobs as the promise to be strong for the King, for the nurses, for the caretakers replacing those who had fallen, crumbled away when it was just them. He held his Prince close, careful of the bandages and the wounds that had been brought back with his Noctis, and tried not to worry too much when the Prince clung to him. He held Noctis close, and told him all about the Citadel. About the way the Council had argued while he was gone, and the way his uncle fretted. He spoke about the gardens in bloom, and the blossoms they used to play in. He let Noctis know that the kitchen were making more and more requests for the things he used to like (and steadfastly ignored the plates of food that barely seemed touched). 

And he listened to Noctis talk about Tenebrae. Of the way the city seemed to float, twisting around the ancient trees. He listened to how there seemed to be fields and fields of blue blossoms, all delicately dancing around him and the Lady Lunafreya as they talked. There were stories of stories— new friends and a strange kingdom so unlike Lucis. 

And there were nightmares. Ignis found that Noctis dreamt of fire and daemons and once familiar faces. He never asked, but there were mornings when he made his way to his own duties to find the Prince curled up and scared, waiting to cling to him. 

He knew there was no protocol for this. No book on etiquette he could refer to, or expert he could ask for help. 

So he asked, very carefully— the story book he had been reading to Noctis clutched close like a shield— to stay. When his uncle came to collect him, and the King came for his nightly vigil against the nightmares that plagued his son, Ignis didn’t untangle himself from Noctis or make his reassurances that he’d be back in the morning. 

“Your majesty, you asked me to look after him. Please allow me to do so.”

And a bed was made for him down the hall, but he preferred to stay on the long loveseat where they used to play. 

He found, deep in the depths of night, that all formalities were lost in his half-asleep state, as the Prince woke. As Noctis slipped from his bed and climbed onto the makeshift bed Ignis had claimed. 

“Noct…”

“Go back to sleep, Iggy.”

And Noctis would curl close again, muttering small stories of his good dreams. Of a new friend named Carbuncle. Of adventures and fairytales, until he was tired again. 

~*~*~

4- He tried to be patient, he really did. 

But Noctis refused to co-operate. There was no amount of sternness, or softness, no reminders that they were friends, brothers. Nothing that could bring Noctis out of his apathy, to understand that he was trying to help, that he was struggling just as much. 

Ignis remembered the excitement when he learnt how to drive, when Noct grinned at him from the passenger seat, and laughed as they made ridiculous plans to escape their handlers. As they realised that the city was open to him now. To them. He remembered the way Noct seemed almost excited to see him pull up to pick him up from school, or to collect him from lessons with Gladio. He remembered the way Noctis started to slip away from him. 

“Your highness—”

“Go away.”

Ignis was not really a patient man. Not like he wanted to be. Not when it came to things like this. 

Not when Noctis was being a brat. 

“Good morning, your highness.”

There were exams coming up. And away from the watchful eye of the Citadel staff— of tutors and advisers— it was only Ignis here to help. To encourage. 

But Noctis didn’t seem to want any part of it. 

It had taken years, but Ignis knew how to get under Noctis’ skin. Scolding and lectures would never work. Noct was too smart for that. Too used to them. The angry reminders to work hard, to try, to do his best, would roll over him like the city noise from the streets around them and below the apartment. 

But formality— Noct hated formalities. 

More so when they came from himself. 

And when Ignis was angry with his Prince, he made sure it was evident. There were formal greetings— little bows and titles never used when they were younger. There were clipped reports and messages, the work of the adviser rather than the friend. A distance between them reinforced as Noctis pushed and pushed. And Ignis pushed back. 

He provided clinical reports from the Citadel— mentions of the King’s health that made Noctis turn his back to him— of hostilities at the borders, of formal meetings and plans. And with every push Noctis gave to him, Ignis pushed back, until he couldn’t keep the disappointment in his friend— his fear for Noctis’ happiness— out of his voice. He tried to prepare his friend, to share the burden as best he could, to make good on his promise to always be there when he was needed. 

In those times, when they were both so close to breaking, Ignis was glad for Gladio. For the assurances that there was someone else looking out for Noct, listening to him, talking to him— even if they were also beating the snot out of each other while doing so. Ignis found that he didn’t care about the methods. So long as Noct was talking. 

So long as Noct wasn’t alone. 

~*~*~

5- Nobody ever liked hospitals. There were varying degrees of tolerance borne of necessity, but no one could ever be said to actually enjoy the sterile waiting rooms or the stark white halls. Ignis couldn’t even remember the last time he had set foot in one. 

But here he was, with two coffees balanced from the canteen, and a questionable sandwich in hand as he carefully shouldered through doors and across waiting rooms. It was easy to avoid the crowd when he knew where he was going, but the first few moments— those heart-rending, terrified moments of not knowing what had happened— had made the place seem overwhelming. The maze of white halls and the sickly smell of cleaner and medicines had seemed to just sink in everywhere. The footsteps on the shining tile floors, the push of wheels and equipment, the press of people all vying for attention and answers… 

Ignis had feared the worse when he saw Noctis, alone in his guilt as Clarus and Iris spoke with a doctor. 

“Noct—”

“They’re saying it’s not as bad as it looks, apparently.”

A bar fight. All of this turmoil and pain, over a trip out to the wrong sort of bar. Where Noct wasn’t recognised, but someone wanted to take his chances with the challenge Gladio represented. Where Gladio was too damned noble to fight back. 

Ignis offered the coffee, first, letting Noctis take both paper cups from him as he took a seat. They had been waiting for hours— Ignis returning for news after searching for food, for coffee, for a distraction from his worry. “Any news?”

“He won’t lose his eye.”

“That’s good,” Ignis said as he divided up the sandwich between them, giving it a critical look over before trading half for the coffee Noct was holding for him. “Though I fear we may be dead from food poisoning before visiting hours.”

“It’s not that bad, Specs.”

“It really is.”

Ignis smiled at the face Noct made at the first sip of the weak coffee, as the nurses came and went, and the Guard changed with the shifts. He smiled in greeting to Iris, and stood to bow to Clarus as he approached with news, with the schedule for visits. As he was assured that Noct would be able to stay for as long as he wanted. If he wanted. Ignis watched as Noct was greeted, and interns from the Citadel made their appearances and greetings, formal to their Prince, even as Ignis wondered at the formalities in such a setting. 

He decided that he would much rather alleviate Noct’s guilt and fear by complaining about the canteen. Among the seemingly never ending wave of formal greetings and requests, he preferred to see Noct smile. 

~*~*~

+1 - No matter where they were, Ignis was always keenly aware of where Noct was or wasn’t. He knew, in these more trying times, when they had only the illusion of safety around them, that his duties were more important than they ever could be when they were young. 

When they woke in Lestallum, it was to the familiar noise of a city that rarely slept. To the promise of people tushing about their errands and the wake of life scattering around them. When he woke in the Lestallum Leville, with the soft beds and the promise of safety, he wondered if he was getting too used to these arrangements. Too used to these quiet moments where he had Noct to himself. 

They woke under the illusion of safety in Cauthess, in motels and caravans scattered throughout the struggling kingdom. They woke to the muted noise of steady traffic, to farms and towns, and the stench and noise of chocobos. They woke in tents, the fading screeches and dying gasps of daemons burning away in the daylight as the protection of ancient magics made promises stronger than any power plant or electric light. 

Ignis thought he could be forgiven for thinking them safe. 

He felt that he could be forgiven for not bowing to Noct. For not greeting him as a King just yet. 

He knew he would be forgiven for greeting Noct in the morning, as they stayed close to each other in the warmth of their bed, with a kiss and a smile.


End file.
